the romantic sound of the nearby quarry

Dearest Natsha, My heart skips a beat when I see your goldenized face in the sunlight, you are in the darkness? Let my shine a flamethrower on your forehead, burning away the tears with the heat of passionate exchanges. I am reminded of my favorite song: "Midnight at the Oasis" by Maria Muldaur... when she says "Let's slip off to a sand dune real soon and kick up a little dust... I'll be your belly dancer, prancer, and you can be my sheik". Yes my harem is a little small, but there is only room for one, which by process of elimination would be you, sweet Natalya, you make my toothache, my belly twist and turn into a noose. When you say you are mine I picture baby diapers and ziplock bags, maybe some lovemaking under a starry ceiling with glow in the dark star stickers on it and the romantic sound of the nearby quarry. I want to touch you on the inside.
I am sorry, I have offended you perhaps? I cannot help my passions, for you seem quietly beautiful, I am afraid that I suffer what Shopenhauer envisioned as the 'will to life', I wanna make the babies soon, see my future son and daughter become productive labourers for society. I am a simple man, with complex carbon-based atomic structure. I am like any man in that way, but I am different because I have you as a friend Natalya. I want to know more about you, what did you study? What city do you live in? What is your favorite fruit and/or vegetable?
Oh Natalya, it is too painful to think of you, who only shows me such small glimpses in photographs. Would you send me pictures of you undressed, standing in that sunlight? I would picture you dressed in the elaborate fashion of the 1890's, and would bedazzle you with pearl necklaces, and ornate silk scarves. I would wrap you in my arms and would be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last."
But no, the thought of your breasts rising and falling with your breath as you stare into the darkness, the imperceptible hairs on your skin, risen by the shivers, the way your hands have grown old by your pained experience... I am truly sorry you have been hurt, I hope you are like me now, one who would never hurt again...

Dear Natalya, I grow close to weeping, I must retire to my antechamber, bestill your soft heart. Magnus.